


All My Days

by PrettyThief



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Character death is not Jaime or Brienne, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage, Minor Character Death, Old Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22060546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyThief/pseuds/PrettyThief
Summary: Jaime had always intended to marry Brienne when the Long Night was over. But there comes a day when they both realize how impossible a dream that is.  Over the years their paths cross a handful of times, only to diverge again. Until they don't.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 97
Kudos: 292





	All My Days

**Author's Note:**

> I have had this in my head for a long time. Even shared a bulleted headcanon about it to get it out of my head. And several weeks later, still found myself wanting to write it. So here we have it. I edited in quite a hurry, but hopefully the mistakes are minimal.
> 
> Title, and a lot of inspiration, comes from [All My Days](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_R5IQoIYvTM) by Alexi Murdoch. It's probably my favorite song for them.

**F** or so long smoke and cold have swirled together to prick water from Jaime’s eyes and burn at his lungs that their absence on one optimistically warm morning is a shock to his system. He enters the Great Hall at Winterfell with Valyrian steel hung from his right hip. The threat is many nights passed now, but the weight of the sword seems to ground him to a world he scarcely recognizes and so, unlike his dinted and dulled armor, he still feels compelled to wear it wherever he goes.

Jaime spots its twin at the far end of the hall, the hilt glinting red in the delicate new sunlight filtering in from the wide windows. The owner of the sword is crammed into a small table against the back wall, sullenly breaking her fast on stale bread and dried cheese. Jaime smiles to himself and allows his feet to carry him in her direction.

“Good morning, my lady,” he says pleasantly as he slides into the chair opposite her.

Brienne looks up, a frown creasing her brow. “Good morning, Jaime.”

He still loves the way his name sounds on her lips, no matter how dour her expression. It has been his greatest joy discovering all the different ways she can make “ _Jaime_ ” sound. A reprimand, a prayer, a plea, a delight, a scream. Each one is his favorite.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, crossing his legs and stealing a bit of cheese from her plate.

She is silent for a long while, but Jaime has learned that if he simply holds his tongue, she will eventually reward him with her thoughts. So he waits, using the interlude to admire the clarity of her downcast blue eyes. They had for so long been unrecognizable to him, obscured by the flames of dragons, torches, and candlelight… and night, deepest night. Morning suits her well.

“The efforts to rebuild are almost at an end.”

The finality in her voice is enough for him to understand her meaning. He nods, the small smile he had worn slowly dragging down his face to form a frown.

“Cousin Damion has held Casterly Rock for quite some time,” he says softly.

Their eyes meet, and the look she wears is enough to make Jaime close his eyes just to hide from it. There are no tears, not as there had been when the news of her father had broken; that rare and precious moment she had collapsed into his arms and buried her head in his chest. Tears he could have understood. But Brienne’s eyes are lifeless, her face without emotion of any kind.

He knows what she’s doing.

He wants to say something that will make her eyes shine again, the way they had the previous evening as they walked through Winterfell’s gardens. She had excitedly pointed out a tiny cluster of green sprouts near the edge of the hot springs, running with the enthusiasm of a child to gently trail a calloused finger over the little blades of grass. He had known what to say then, the pretty words of hope they had whispered to one another all the way back to her bed.

There are no words for this—this time he had known would have to come. The east and the west had converged in never-ending darkness, but now the sun rises where and when it should, and the delineations are crisp and clear.

Hours and days and lifetimes seem to pass while Jaime looks into her eyes, praying that he may actually fall into them this time.

“You have someone in mind?” he finally says, dropping his gaze and tapping a finger on the table.

She shakes her head, her chair creaking beneath her as she leans back.

The Great Hall is filling by then; men who would be the subject of so many songs to come, lauded as heroes, as superhuman, as brave and bold and beyond reproach. To Jaime they just look tired, grief in every eye even as an odd joke is told or a hug is exchanged.

“Well,” he says slowly, his eyes landing on one such hero, “there’s always your friend, Ser Cunt.”

“ _Jaime_ ,” she admonishes but she’s smiling, all buck teeth and lips made for kissing.

“Is he not a viable prospect?” he asks innocently.

“I’m not marrying Hyle Hunt.”

Their smiles fade at the same moment, once the word is out in the open between them. It was a word he had wanted to bring up to her himself for quite some time. How ridiculous he had been.

 _Did I expect her to give up her birthright or should I have given up mine?_ he thinks bitterly, running his fingers first over his golden hand, then the lion’s head pommel of his sword. She would never abandon her people, and he… Jaime had never wanted to rule. Yet when their new king had proclaimed before all that Jaime had been restored as the Lord of Casterly Rock, he was surprised at how nice the title sounded to his ears. His mind had raced with improvements for the Rock and thoughts of how much he wanted to serve the people his father had turned a blind eye toward.

“Ser Andrew is a Stormlander,” he says, finding the younger Estermont deep in conversation with Davos Seaworth. “A second or third son, if I’m not mistaken.” His eyes meet Brienne’s with intent. “A good man. He seems to already respect you.”

Brienne leans forward in her chair again. She reaches out to touch his face, fingertips grazing his cheek gently, and Jaime instinctively leans into her touch. He brings his hand up to hers, tracing circles with his thumb.

“My lady,” he says softly, voice cracking.

“My lord,” she replies, and then there are tears, although Jaime does not know whose begin first.

Jaime does not dream of her every night but when he does it’s mercilessly happy. The feel of her skin against his, the sound of her laugh, her body stepping in front of his just before an enormous wight separates his head from his neck. He always awakens with a smile. Occasionally he rolls over in his bed and expects to find her there, but the hair on the pillow next to him is chestnut and the figure beneath the blankets is small and slim. He wants to feel ashamed in those brief moments when he does not recognize—and somewhat resents—his lady wife and mother of his child. He never can.

They exchange letters for some time. It isn’t often and usually accompanies the pretense of some business. On one such occasion, Jaime wishes to purchase marble from her. The statues he commissions for his redesign of the Casterly gardens do not need to be made of Tarth marble, but he’s single-minded in his vision. He knows Brienne does not have to travel to Casterly Rock when the stuff is delivered, but she does anyway.

Jaime waits in the courtyard for her party to arrive, caring little how overeager he may appear or how his wife of seven years had watched him with wary eyes all morning. He can see a carriage winding its way up the Rock, can make out the rose and azure coat of arms painted onto its doors. His insides seem to be trying to unglue themselves from their assigned places. He leans one shoulder against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. The squint of his eyes softens as the carriage came closer.

He’s at the bottom of the stairs before the carriage has even come to a halt, teetering on the balls of his feet and scowling with impatience.

The first feet to land on the ground are Ser Andrew’s, as tall as his lady knight but much more bearded.

“My lord,” says Andrew Estermont, bowing low.

Jaime approaches him and dutifully shakes his hand. “It has been a long time, Ser Andrew.”

Brienne’s husband seems as though he might be about to speak, but Jaime has already dropped his hand and turned to the next occupant to scramble out. His arm is already outstretched, ready to help her from the carriage but instead—

 _A child_.

He sucks in a breath, unprepared for the sight before him: a girl with freckled skin and hair the color of ash, standing only at the height of Jaime’s sword belt. And her eyes… Her mother’s eyes. Brienne’s eyes. Brienne, a mother.

By the time Jaime has regained control of his senses, the woman who had occupied his dreams only a handful of hours earlier is standing before him. Where she would have normally carried a sword— _his_ sword—a boy child straddles her hip. He’s pleased to see that she still wears breeches, that the planes of her legs seem as muscular as he remembers.

Brienne raises her eyebrows at him and Jaime realizes he’s staring, can feel Ser Andrew’s eyes on him, and so quickly folds himself over into a bow.

“My lady,” he all but whispers, taking her hand and brushing his lips against her knuckles.

“My lord,” she returns with a familiar little smile, inclining her head toward him just slightly.

“I’ll just—I’ll take the children inside, Lord Lannister? Brienne?” Ser Andrew’s face is neutral in a way that speaks volumes of his anxiety; Jaime has seen enough of men pretending not to fear him.

The thought flashes in Jaime’s mind that perhaps Estermont _should_ be afraid, but he pushes the inappropriate thoughts away and simply nods his consent to the Evenstar’s consort. Once the children and her husband have shut the door behind them, Jaime turns his full attention back to the woman standing next to him.

“Shall we walk, my lady?” He offers his arm to her, pleased when she takes it without hesitation.

He leads her toward the gardens, their pace slow over the crunching garden stones beneath their feet. He’s reminded of their last walk together and how the tiniest sprig of spring had delighted her so. Now in the throes of summer, Casterly Rock is choked and humid with greenery.

“You look well, Jaime.” Her tone is somewhere between courtly propriety and genuine fondness.

Jaime says nothing, only marvels at the sound of his name on her tongue, a sound from a dream. This is a “ _Jaime_ ” he has not heard in some time, perhaps not since King’s Landing so many years ago, when he had sent her from the city with a sword and a letter from the king. It’s proper and ladylike, a version he quite likes, as well as he likes all the rest.

Safely hidden from sight by hedges and shrubbery, Jaime halts their progress and spins her in front of him, his hand gripping her upper arm and his eyes burning into hers. She looks surprised, and he wonders what she would do if he tried to kiss her.

But he doesn’t.

“You know, I have had _no_ suitable sparring partners in all these years?” _I’ve missed you, wench_.

She huffs a laugh, and Jaime can’t help but smile at the sound of it. “Nor have I.”

“Perhaps we should rectify our mutual predicament after dinner?” he purrs, meaning to sound dangerous.

Her eyes widen and she blushes, as blotchy and red as he remembers.

“I didn’t mean—my lady Evenstar, what a _filthy_ mind you have!”

She’s scowling then, and Jaime grins with triumph.

They continue their walk through the gardens, accompanied only by chirping birds, chattering squirrels, and rays of sunlight warmer than any they had ever known together. It’s peaceful and amicable, more than he could have ever wished for. But he had always known, some part of him, that their parting at Winterfell was not final. They had parted so many times before only to return to one another. He saw no reason another separation would bring about any other outcome than the one it always had.

They talk for some time, of their lives since their last meeting, of shared memories, of the lands and people they each serve, of their children. They have dinner with their families, and Jaime is annoyed that he cannot seem to find a flaw in Andrew Estermont. Afterward, they spar in the courtyard and it’s the most alive Jaime has felt in years.

“Your daughter has your eyes,” he says quietly as the sky relinquishes its blue in exchange for the red of twilight. Each of them is drenched in sweat, arms heavy and bodies sore where the wooden swords had landed without mercy.

Brienne gives him a sad smile, stretching an arm across her chest before dropping it to her side.

“Your son has yours.”

Jaime nods, looking at his feet.

 _He should have yours_ , he wants to say, but does not. He wonders if her thoughts are anything like his, or if he’s alone in his pathetic desperation and merely tepid devotion to a spouse that could never match up to the past.

“Care for another dance, my lady?”

She grins in earnest then, drawing her sword back up. “You know I won’t let you win just because this is your castle.”

Jaime bares his teeth in a wicked smile, matching her stance and pointing his sword toward the freckled hollow of her throat, a sweet spot his tongue had once favored.

“I dearly hope not.”

The second time Jaime meets her, many years later, rebellion is in the air and the king has sent out a plea to any house with troops to spare. Jaime is tired of war and tired of politics, but answers the call nonetheless. It’s in the war room that he first sees her, standing in a blue dress next to her husband. Her face is more lined, more maternal, and Jaime thinks it’s a look that suits her. It makes him wonder how he’ll appear to her, more silver than gold in his hair and beard now, his skin not as smooth or firm as she’ll have remembered.

“Jaime!” she says with excitement upon seeing him, waving him toward her.

He smiles, his heart seeming to flood with emotion that she had used his first name and not “Lord Lannister” or some other such honorific. After all these years, she was ever his friend.

“Evenstar,” he says with a small bow, “Ser Andrew,” with another bow.

“Lord Lannister. A pity we must meet again under these circumstances.”

Jaime sighs, thinking of the young men in his ranks who had never known anything but peace, of his only son who would shortly ride out into his first battle.

“How is your family?” he asks politely.

“Our Duncan has joined his cousins at Estermont. And Alysanne has just married. Oh Jaime, she’s so happy.” Brienne says it with a longing he understands.

 _As happy as we could have been; as happy as we were_, he hears her say-without-saying.

“And yours?”

Jaime purses his lips, hating how many times he’s had to say the same thing over the years. He had never told Brienne precisely to avoid her pity, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to avoid her forever.

“You’ll remember my son, Tybolt? He was knighted during a conflict at Lannisport some moons back. He’ll have to be a captain, if this rebellion comes to action.”

Brienne smiles, so sincere and proud of this boy she does not truly know that it makes Jaime’s heart ache. He wants to return the brilliance of her toothy smile, but the final product of his efforts is barely a twitch of his lips.

“We lost Jeyne not long after you met her. A sudden illness. The maesters say there was nothing could have helped.”

Brienne’s radiant smile turns sad and sympathetic while Ser Andrew offers his condolences. 

“You have been alone all these years? And Tybolt?”

The lines on her forehead that had been so faint before are now prominent with concern. Her eyes probe his as though to ascertain that he would not fall apart before her.

“Brienne. I’m fine. We’re _fine_. I am not unaccustomed to loss.”

He knows from the softening of her expression that they’re both thinking of his children before Tybolt; of his sister, who had brought death upon herself; of his brother, who was not dead but might as well be for as much as Tyrion wanted to do with him; of the family he had lost at Riverrun to the Brotherhood; all of the lives at Winterfell… Losing Jeyne had saddened him. He had never been able to give her the love he felt she deserved. But she was a good friend and a good mother, which was more than he should have ever dared to hope for.

She must see something in his face because without a word, she steps forward and pulls him into a hug. Jaime realizes he does not know the last time someone had held him, had even thought to touch him like this. Brienne does it with her husband standing next to her, with every great lord and lady of Westeros chattering in the background, many of whom knew their history. He hugs her back with abandon, his arms tightening around her waist and his forehead falling onto her shoulder.

_She smells the same. She feels the same. But we are not the same._

The third and final time that Jaime Lannister’s path crosses with Brienne of Tarth’s, they are both in attendance at a wedding—her grandson’s.

The island of Tarth is everything that Brienne had ever described to him. The port he arrives at is bustling as any of his own in the westerlands, but the atmosphere is friendly. The dockhands are jocular and the stalls that line the streets are not aggressively trying to sell him anything. He stops at them nevertheless, looking for gifts to bring with him. He smiles to himself when he finds something suitable and slips it into his pocket in exchange for a handful of golden coins.

He doesn’t see Brienne herself until that evening, as busy as she must be as the head of her island and family. It’s still an odd thought to Jaime; the shy young woman with naught but a sword to her name he had met decades ago in the riverlands seems a far cry from this stately woman called the Evenstar.

The words are exchanged and the feasting has begun by the time Jaime is able to approach her where she stands, leaning against a wall and watching young couples dance. Her appearance has changed so slightly since last he met her. How long ago had that been? Fifteen years? Twenty? His Tybolt had barely been a man grown, and now his own sons were old enough to squire.

“Your invitation was a surprise,” he says, resting his body carefully on the wall next to her. His knees crack, but he considers the generally good condition of his old joints a blessing.

“Your acceptance was a surprise.”

“I only wish you’d invited me to more of these.” He waves his hand vaguely towards the dancers.

“I didn’t think a man of your age would be up to travel.” She looks sideways at him, a glint of mischief in her eyes.

“You jest, my lady, but make no mistake: I could still best you with a sword in my hand.”

She snorts. “You couldn’t best me with a sword in your hand even when you weren’t a such silver old lion.”

He only laughs, shaking his head, knowing she tells it true. “Where is your lord husband this evening? I am not so used to having your undivided attention.”

Her face falls to solemnity. “Andrew died in the rebellion.”

“My lady—Brienne, I didn’t know.”

“His name was never important enough to make it into westerlands gossip circles, was it?”

Jaime sighs, knowing from experience that there isn’t much to be said. He watches her from the periphery of his vision, waits for her face to change into a more neutral arrangement as she looks out at her family, friends, and allies enjoying themselves under her roof.

“Did you love him?” His voice is so quiet that when she doesn’t immediately turn or answer, he isn’t sure she’s heard him. It isn’t a question he wants to ask twice.

“Yes. In my own way.” Her eyes find his, searching him in a way no one had ever bothered to before or since he had met her. It makes his pulse race, even now. “Did you love her?”

“I—I believe so. It’s been a long time.”

“You never thought to marry again? Tybolt is a good lad, but … One son is precious little to stake your House and family on.”

“No,” he says firmly, moving from the wall to face her. He can feel his expression soften as he reaches for her hand. “May I have this dance, my lady?”

She smiles then, a smile he doesn’t recognize at all. It’s wise and old, maybe a little tired. But she allows him to lead her to the dance floor.

“We’ve never done this,” he says conversationally. His golden hand is at her waist and their hands are joined. He’s not as surprised by her graceful footwork as he might have been the first time he met her; she moved gracefully in other ways, too.

“There is much we haven’t done,” she mumbles, looking out past his shoulder.

Jaime hates the regret in her voice every time they meet. He spins her in time with the music, delighting in the way her hair waves behind her. He should never have let her go, all those years ago in Winterfell. He loves his son and is proud of the work he’s put into the westerlands, and he knows she could say much the same of the life she has led on Tarth. But… _But what?_

“Marry me,” he says when the spin brings her back into his arms.

“ _What_?” The word bubbles with laughter as they continue to float around the dance floor.

“It’s what I should have said to you at Winterfell. It’s what I had planned to say—”

“I know, Jaime, I know—”

“No, you don’t. I couldn’t ask you then. I’m asking you now. _Marry me_ , _Brienne_.”

“Jaime,” she says, and this “ _Jaime_ ” is apprehensive. He still likes it.

“Please.”

She chortles at that, breathy as a girl. “I fear I’m past the age to bear you any children.”

“All the better,” Jaime laughs, “I can have my way with you without any risk of squalling babes.”

“ _Jaime_!”

He grins wide, wondering if she knows the effect she has on him when she says his name that way. And certainly the good and proper Andrew Estermont had never made her blush as she does now.

“The septon’s still here.”

She blinks at him. “Alright.”

He isn’t sure how they decide on the riverlands. He only knows that one day they stop their horses at an inn ran by a gentleman who makes pies of every size, shape, and variety. The whole village smells of roasting apples, seasoned lamb, and oak. When they learn there’s a cottage on the edge of the forest for sale, Jaime jumps on the opportunity.

The cottage is small: only a single room and a garden in the back. He’d always enjoyed tending the gardens at Casterly Rock, sprawling as they were. This seemed much more manageable for an old knight’s creaky knees. He hadn’t mentioned the gardens in the letters they had left to their children when they had wed on Tarth, but he trusted Tybolt to care for the greenery as well as he knew he would care for their people.

“Wench,” he says, hands on his hips inside their new abode, “this might be the finest idea I’ve ever had.”

“Probably the only fine idea you’ve ever had.”

“Right you are! I did have the idea to marry _you_ , the unceasing thorn in my side.”

The grin he wears had scarcely left his face during their travel, leaving his cheeks aching. Jaime wraps his arms around her waist and places a kiss to her forehead.

“Are you happy?” He has found that he can be direct with her in a way he never could be with anyone else. Direct questions, direct answers. Honesty.

“So happy,” she whispers in a trembling voice that suggests at tears. Tears he could manage.

He lifts his hand to stroke her hair, comforting. “What say we break in the bed?”

“You’re insufferable,” she replies, but there’s a shaky laugh in her words and she allows him to lead her to their bed, her lips on his a gift he'll never feel he deserves.

He doesn’t know how many days he has left to give to her, this woman he has loved for the majority of his life. But he knows each day he would spend in service to her. They would build a life together, even if that life was only another year in a run-down cottage in the middle of nowhere. There, finally, they would breathe, and rest, and _live_.


End file.
